


We Can Hurt Together (Come Hurt with Me)

by WrittenInWonderland



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Depression, Eating Disorders, Homophobia, M/M, PTSD, Suicidal thoughts/tendencies, honestly there's a lot of psychological disruption, im not at home with my journal with all my notes for this fic so i will fix these once i get there, please be careful reading this if you can be triggered by any of these sorts of issues, potentially a bit of gore, self harm too, sol children falling in love and trying to fall out of disaster, they're in a hospital for christ's sake so, uhh yeah they're also super cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-29 18:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenInWonderland/pseuds/WrittenInWonderland
Summary: Lottie found Louis passed out on the bathroom floor, toilet filled with puke and his sunken torso visible where his sweater rode up. She panicked, phoning their mum, sure Louis had just died, the stench following her throughout the home. She was ten years old.All these struggles, all these battles his loved ones had to fight: Harry never noticed, Harry didn't even see them drowning. Anyways, the pictures he paints help him remember that other people need him not to fuck up again. But maybe he just will no matter what.'I'm so sorry,' the note read, 'you deserved so much better.'





	1. 1-Louis

It had been so easy.

                  He'd kept it a secret from his family, from his friends, for months. He'd been able to do it. He watches the greenery blur together, allowing his vision to swim in and out of focus, the trees blending together one moment and taking distinct shape the next. His head hurt and he felt light, his throat sore and scratchy from the breakfast he'd tossed up before hitting the road. It was hard to hide, especially with how acutely his mom was now paying attention. He'd had to take what was possibly the quickest shower of his life, wait until _after_ his shower (when he was sure she wasn't pressed at the door listening in with a bloody stethoscope), and turn the music up on his phone as loud as possible. When he came out, he thinks he probably wasn't able to cover the smell as well as he thought he was, because his mum goes to hug him but then pulls back, her eyes widening before she pulls him close with almost violent force for a hug.

Fuck, he wishes he'd hidden it better. He was gonna miss her so fucking much.

                  His stomach growled and he accidentally caught sight of Jo's hands tightening their grip on the steering wheel; he raised the volume of the radio to drown out any more potential noises from his ungrateful, bloated belly. The drive felt endless, even though it was realistically a little under two hours long. Traffic in Doncaster had been a little heavy, making the trip longer than it should've been, but no matter how short it felt like years, and they still hadn't even arrived yet. This was weird, this wasn't normal and Louis needed to pull over and purge despite the lack of contents he held. He'd never felt like this around his mum: he'd felt guilty, and unworthy, and remorseful, and disgusting, but never _awkward._ Never nervous.

 _Anorexia Nervosa_. The two words screamed at him every time they could. _You fat pig! You gross waste of space._ Of course, he knew very well that doctor had been entirely off his rocker; had worked up Louis' mum so unnecessarily. It was just a diet, never anything so extreme. They all obviously couldn't see it: the fat on his thighs, belly, arms, occupying any place flab potentially could. That was okay. He agreed to check in to some sort of correction facility (if he couldn't fix everything else that was fucked up about himself for his mum, he could at least placate her with this). He half expected to not even be checked in upon their arrival--'There's nothing wrong with your son, Mrs. Deakin. In fact, he could even afford to lose a little bit more weight. You are free to take him back home.'--but the words still flashed at him behind his eyelids.

_Anorexia Nervosa._

                  He felt his stomach clench as the car lurched at a particularly large hole in the winding road, his vision dancing on the edges with shadows. He felt Johannah send him an anxious look and pretended to be watching the scenery as it whipped by; a maelstrom just barely contained outside their car, not yet seeping in and letting the chaos effect the two souls within.

-

                  Maybe, _just maybe_ , this place wasn't meant to appear as horrific as it did. Maybe realistically it was just the gloomy weather that seemed to have skipped over the park entirely and only decided to inhabit the cities surrounding. Maybe he was just programmed to _hate_ the place, but whatever the case, he did. It looked like Hades' mansion in the deepest pits of hell, where tortured souls milled aimlessly in the yard and the bricks were really just powdered bones turned cement. His skin crawled, his gross stomach lurched; every fiber of his being screamed at him to run.

"Mum, we believe in Hell right?" He asked, jokingly, when she rounded the car and opened his door for them to trudge up the path under a shared umbrella. She had her arm wrapped around his shoulders, gently hugging him close to her, and her body heat helped ease the shivers brought on as a companion to the rain. A man dressed in an off-white polo and khaki pants opened the door before they even had a chance to knock, following Johannah's instructions as to where they could find Louis' luggage in the car. She shook off the rain on the umbrella before closing it and leaning it against the outside wall, under the door's overhang. Louis wiped his muddy shoes on the overenthusiastic ' _Welcome!'_ mat, goop smearing the words and filling the crevices, before stepping inside, anxiously running a hand through his hair and taking in his surroundings. His brain felt as though it was being pierced by the screeches it shot at itself, so loudly it echoed off the insides of his mind and threatened an imposing migraine: ' _leave! run! this place will do nothing but derail you from your goal; they all just want you fatter!'_ He hadn't even noticed he'd been scooting back towards the door until his mum had gently taken his hand in hers, leading him to the front desk. It wasn't even a front desk, really: it was like the entryway of a posh family's home with a little desk slanted against one of the sides, cut to fit against the wall at a forty-five degree angle. The woman sat there had short, curly orange hair and freckles that Louis imagined could draw out constellations. His friend Zayn would have immediately announced he was in love upon placing his eyes on her. The thought made his heart ache and his stomach roll over in pain.

                  "Good afternoon! How can I help you today?" She asked, voice cheery and her eyes bright. Louis turned down to his feet and figured he'd just let his mum sort things out.

"Hello, I'm here to check in my son, Louis Tomlinson?" His mum's voice was friendly but strained, like she'd've given anything not to be there in that exact moment. Louis couldn't wait to leave. He'd try not to be too obnoxious when letting her know _he told her so_.

                  "Give me just a mo', I'll bring up his info in our files." She clicked away on her keyboard, her manicured nails delicately tapping against the keys, her eyes brightening triumphantly once she'd found something. "Ah, yes. Well, you're a bit early but it's alright as his room's been ready since this morning, so he can check in or you two can go have lunch together before returning. I wish the weather were better, you could have driven back into town and spent time there; it's lovely."

Louis flinched at the idea of sitting to lunch with his mum now that she 'knew' everything she did, and he saw a flash of sadness pass over her features.

"That's fine, he can go ahead and check in now. Is there anything we need to fill out?"

"Mhmm, I'll just print that up for you now. You can find a sitting area through the entrance to your left to fill it out in."

                  "Alright, Lou, why don't you go ahead and I'll find you once the papers are ready?" Her tone was soft, a startling contrast to the voice whispering endlessly into Louis' ear, and he gently removed his hand from hers and followed the directions the woman had given. The sitting room was simple enough: hung on the walls were paintings of all subjects and schools, from picasso-esque portraits to landscapes reminiscent of Monet. One had a girl floating naked in the clouds, white mist covering her intimates.

She was a sort of thin Louis could only dream of achieving.

                  There were two windows on the left of the room, currently fogged and speckled with rain but still bathing the room in spots of light. The rest of the light came from a ceiling installation shaped like a dome. The walls were a blinding white, the trim at the ceiling and floor simple beams of white wood. There were a few people scattered, and they all eyed him curiously. He felt his cheeks heat and he turned to the floor (deep brown wood, the only warmth he'd found thus far in this shithole and they were all just trampling all over it) and shuffled to the only vacant seating: a plush beige couch with a wooden coffee table set in front of it. There was a plastic vase with daisies and it may have made his heart ache just a little bit more. He felt several pairs of eyes on him, probably judging him and wondering was such an obese waste of space was doing in their space, and he closed his eyes, bending over so his head rested between his knees. He felt the couch dip next to him and his mum's hand squeeze his before removing itself. He couldn't judge how much time had passed when the weight lifted off the other side of the couch, but he knew he was ready to leave. She must have realized he didn't belong here, after all. About time. He lifted his head, slowly, and allowed his eyes to take their time adjusting to the light in the room. There weren't other people occupying the other seats, anymore: it was just him and his mum and the woman from the desk earlier, reading over papers as Johannah capped the pen.

"Alright, everything seems to be in order. Louis, they've just served lunch, so you'll probably be a bit late but as soon as you finish we'll have you introduced to your doctor and then settled into your room. All your stuff is already there."

                  He scoffed, twirling his quiff out of his face and turning to his mum, expecting her to tell the woman to sod off and pull Louis back to the car. Instead, she just looked at Louis like she was moments away from tears. "Oh, Lou-bear, I'm going to miss you so much." She came to sit next to him on the couch and pulled him into a hug. Louis, still in shock, went easily.

He felt the floor drop out from below him, his stomach following suit. This was it. She was really going to make him stay. They were going to check him into this _madhouse_.

"Mum," he pleaded, pulling away and desperately meeting her eyes, "Mum I really don't need to be here. We can just go home right now, I can ease up on my diet a bit, but I really don't need to--,"

"Louis," Johannah cut in, harshly, despite the pain in her eyes, "you know none of that is true, and you need to understand that, oh sweetie," her tone wavered and she started full-on sobbing, pulling him to her once again, "sweetheart, I am so, so sorry for not noticing any sooner. I can't--I love you too much to let this carry on. I'd never forgive myself if-- _Louis_ \--darling, you're my whole world."

                  Louis wanted to cry, his heart clenching at the sight of his mum shedding tears _because of him_ , but he couldn't stop the incessant chanting that ' _she's betrayed you, she doesn't love you, she's sending you away because she can barely stand you, she wants you gone just like everyone else does. Can you even blame her? Maybe if you weren't such a mess, maybe if you could control yourself...'_  He tried shutting it up, this was his _mum_ , but the voice in his head was making more sense than she was. He was fine. She just didn't want him around anymore. He removed himself from her embrace and faced her, waiting until her eyes met his to speak.

"You don't. If you loved me, you'd want me to stay with you, you wouldn't be sending me away. You'd--you'd _believe_ me," His voice cracked, and he'd had enough. He simply refused to cry. He was already pathetic in one respect, no need to reaffirm it any more. He stood up, bid her the emptiest 'goodbye' he possibly could, and politely asked the woman to show him to where she wanted him. Johannah called after him that she loved him, that she'd come visit him next Friday after work, and Louis tried his hardest to believe her.

-

                  Lunch at Priory Hospital was probably the worst thing Louis had ever endured. They gave him a tray loaded with a ham and cheese toastie, an apple, a banana, and a water bottle. A woman came up to him and asked if he also wanted anything extra to drink, and he asked if they had green tea.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't give you one of those. I can bring you an orange juice, or pop?"

Louis shook his head, glaring at the banana. That alone would cost him more than 100 calories, and he didn't even want to begin to consider how many grams of fat the sandwich contained.

"Okay, so Louis, since you're new I'm going to explain the rules concerning mealtime. You're required to eat everything you're served, and I know the portions aren't exactly what you want but they'll change in size over time. You can take as long as you need to finish your food off, but if it gets to a point at which we collectively feel you are stalling to avoid eating altogether, then another approach will be taken. M'kay?"

Louis glared at the ginger woman and shook his head. "What's your name, anyways?"

"Alice. I'll be leaving you shortly in the care of William, a nurse here, and after you're done here he'll show you to your doctor's office, alright?" Louis hummed noncommittally and picked off a piece of the toast, chewing it until it liquefied before finally swallowing. He did this three more times until who he assumed to be William showed up: a man who appeared a bit taller than Louis with terrible posture and a kind smile. Alice bid Louis goodbye and informed him that should he ever need her, she was always at the front desk. William crossed the small dining area easily, taking the seat next to Louis at the table shoved into the furthest corner of the room.

"Hello, mate, I'm Will. It's nice to meet you." His voice was scratchy, like he'd smoked much more than his fair share of fags, and Louis looked down at his hands.

"Is that a tattoo?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Will pulled up his sleeve so Louis could have a better look, bending his arm towards him, "it's a glass of water."

"Half empty?" Louis snorted, and Will shook his head, chuckling as he pulled his sleeve back down.

"Nah, half full."

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.n.: okay, so.  
> i guess the saying 'you write what you know' rings true to a certain extent.  
> i've had this first chapter written and completed for half a year, sitting there, waiting for me to finish the series in order to upload each chapter weekly.  
> then i realized that wasn't really going to work. it's been six months. i've barely finished five chapters, despite having the entire plot line established. so, we'll see how this goes.  
> please, if you struggle with any sort of eating disorder or any symptoms of depression i am ALWAYS here to talk to.  
> recently they've FINALLY opened a suicide hotline in the country where I live and I felt like that should motivate me enough to finally upload this and maybe gain the drive to continue. if i do, i'll probably be updating every tuesday/thursday.  
> its good to be back :)


	2. 2-Harry

                  Harry finishes his lunch quickly, retreating back to his room and seating himself at the desk. His room wasn’t too bad, it could’ve been worse. When he'd first arrived it was a hotel room, and he could name five celebrities off the top of his head who'd killed themselves in similar environments. Two weeks later though, it felt more lived in and more like his actual room at home.

Except, you know, posh.

                  The meds they endlessly gave him, whatever the hell they were, they helped. They changed the sensation of drowning: liquefied it and popped the stop in the tub and Harry would watch it flow down the drain, evolving into something else. He felt a bit more grounded, a bit more in his head, especially if he'd been feeling particularly bad. Except it also made him feel a bit too energetic and made him paranoid about talking to anybody: as of late, once his mouth started running, it never _stopped_. He’d babble for the next century, and it made it such that he still didn't like leaving his room unless absolutely necessary. He simply upgraded from lying in bed to sitting at the desk or on the little sofa off to the side.

There'd been a buzz in the mess hall earlier in the day, Daisy and some others rushing into the common room, rushed whispers about a new patient. One of the girls described him as a butterfly—'beautiful, but scary fragile,'—and Chlo and Jazza has shared a look; it wasn’t that suddenly everyone knew the kid, whoever it was, had an eating disorder, it was just. It just seemed like the most likely hypothesis. Harry’s heart hurt and he quietly dismissed himself. It was hard; Jasmine showed him pictures, once, of herself before living in-patient: spindly as as a spider, they were always so beautiful, and so hollow they looked like ceramic about to crack. And Jasmine and Chloe and everyone else he’d met suffering the same problem, they were such wonderful people: they didn't deserve the hand life dealt them. People like Harry did.   
Self pity wouldn’t get him anywhere, though; well, it would, but considering the last time he’d been called out on them they landed him in this _wonderful_ facility, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know just what they had in store for him next. Harry missed his mum. He missed Gemma, he missed Robin, he missed home. They shouldn't have to be spending this sort of money on him, money they didn't have: they shouldn't have to worry about him. _This_. The worst part of everything was that Dr. Smith wouldn't tell him anything about his progress-- _'You'll start to obsess, and then we won't know whether you're truly getting better or not'--_ but Harry wasn't stupid, or catatonic. He heard the whispered gossip amongst nurses, heard the updates the staff gave Anne and Gems every time they came to visit (a thin wooden door can only mute so much), and he knew he should be better than he is, by now.

                  Maybe the treatment wouldn't work for Harry. Maybe he was _such_ a terrible mess that he had reached the point of incurable. Maybe he should just give up, refuse to eat until he starved himself to death: he definitely deserved that more than Jasmine or Chloe or this new _inmate_ who'd arrived. Maybe that would even do them good; snap some sense into them, at least one of them.

He looked down at his sleeved arm, only now realizing he’d been scratching at the scabs underneath; under the flannel, under the bandage. His arms were almost entirely healed, but the doctor had told him the scars would probably never go away. Harry was okay with that: he was ugly on the inside, might as well allow it to be evident on the outside, too.

There was a soft knock on the door and Harry's mind came to an abrupt halt. Whiplash; his head hurt.

"Harry? Love, you in there?"

_Bollocks._ He hated when Erin came looking for him. She was always so sweet, so soft and kind and Harry always felt terrible for keeping her locked away in his room with him instead of out in the game room or screening room or yard with all her other friends. Because she had a lot of them; she was friends with everyone in the home, even the nurses. Harry secretly hated her, and the hatred made him feel even more awful because what kind of terrible person could so loathe someone who had always been nothing but kind to them?

She wouldn't open the door until she'd knocked again, and she'd warn him that she was about to just as she always did, so Harry quietly jumped to the bed and faked sleep.

"Harry, I'm going to open the door if you don't respond, is that alright?"

Harry snored softly, trying to make himself comfortable in the position he'd chosen on the bed and willing himself to faux-sleep. _Wish I'd picked a better angle for my neck, this is going to hurt so bad if she's here a long while._

                  He heard the door quietly _click_ open and the shuffling of Erin's socked feet before Harry knew she saw him in the bed. He exaggerated his breathing, making it clear he _was fine_ , but the bed still shifted with her weight moments later and a delicate hand swept the hair out of his eyes. He tried not to tense at the unexpected touch, and her hand retracted soon after, the light clicking off as she slowly closed the door behind her. Harry sighed, opening his eyes. He allowed himself to stare at the nothingness of the ceiling until the lulling swirl eased him to sleep.

-

                  Harry is softly shaken by his shoulder, the remnants of sleep crawling into the corners of his eyes and copulating with the crust as he tries to open his eyes. Carlie is bent over him, curly brown hair framing him softly and tickling wherever it brushes his skin. She smells like coconut, and Harry already regrets napping: she only plays search party if he’s late to something.

"'Ello, love. You've got a check-in with Dr. Smith, remember?" Her voice was euphonious, she always seemed to be softly singing, and Harry forces himself to sit up lest he fall back asleep.

"I'm sorry, was I late again?"

"It's fine sweetheart, you didn't do anything wrong."

"'m sorry," he repeats, anyways, because he knows she's probably annoyed she had to come seek him out since he couldn't make his dumb appointment on time. She’s a nurse—not a babysitter. Or maybe she is also that, but he doesn’t have to make her life harder. Whatever; he’s tired. He slips out of the bed and doesn't bother with shoes, sliding a headband on to keep his hair out of his face, and leading the nurse out of his room. She follows him to Smith's study, at the end of the hall of the far wing in Priory, just before Grace's. The walk always seems endless, like that scene in Alice in Wonderland where the endless hallway just keeps closing in and getting smaller and Harry is dreading this whole thing. They make small talk; she asks how his mum is and if she’s planning on visiting tomorrow. Harry shrugs, tells her that Anne said she would, and then asks about her son. That always saves Harry from having to talk about himself anymore: Carlie _adores_ her son and would go on and on about him for centuries. (Harry may secretly find it precious, wondering if his mum still felt that way about him after all the trouble he caused her. Probably not, but Harry'd always been a sucker for dreams.) They arrived, passing the other two doctors’ studies, but sitting on the bench in front of Dr. Anderson's office someone caught Harry's eye.

Daisy was right: he was _beautiful_. Beautiful probably didn't even begin to cover it, but Harry was in awe. He only saw the boy's profile, in passing, but his hair looked so soft, almost downy, and a pale chocolate which wonderfully juxtaposed his pale skin. He was ethereal, and Harry was only blessed enough to seen him for a moment, but that was enough for him to felt guilty knowing this boy was here. _Someone that beautiful_ , he thought as he turned the handle on Dr. Smith's office door, _belonged on a pedestal. In a museum; on the cover of a magazine._

Not in a nuthouse, with the likes of Harry.

-

                  "So, Harry, I hear you've been making progress socially—Erin went looking for you earlier?" These stupid meetings always started the same: Dr. Smith attempting to convince Harry (or maybe himself) that he's making progress. Harry shrugs, fiddling restlessly with a pencil.

"She did? I fell asleep right after lunch so I must've missed her."

"Did you hear we have a new patient joining us?"

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, turning away from Smith's face. "I think I saw him in the hall right now."

"Yes, he's being introduced to his Doctor, Mrs. Anderson. He's here because--,"

"I don't, uhm, I don't really want to know. I mean, you can kind of tell, already, and I just," he takes a sharp breath, trying not to ramble on, "did everyone know what was wrong with me before I told them? Is that just--do you just hand out that sort of information?"

"No, Harry, no. Of course not. I'm sorry, that was very unprofessional of me. I just--you're the only boy in your age group we have, currently, and I know it's been difficult for you to make friends with the girls--I mean, I know you have, but none very substantial, as you've told me before--so I thought maybe his presence here would help; I thought you two might grow very close." Harry shook his head, confused. "I don't--I don't understand. That's not how friendships work: 'Oh, we're both guys stuck together in a correction facility for psychos, we have so much in common!' In what world would that work?"

"But why wouldn't it?" There's no mockery in his tone, not like when Harry first got here. When Harry arrived to Priory, Smith asked him such stupid questions, and Harry could see him smirking at what a pathetic mess he had been. It had kept Harry mute for the entire first week. Now, though, he's thinking maybe he can trust him a little bit more. He's grateful the doctor doesn't comment on Harry's reference to the hospital as a psyche ward like he usually does.

"Because what if he hates me? That's a very probable outcome."

"Why would you think that? You've been here two weeks and nobody here hates you; in fact, I've heard quite the opposite."

Harry curls in on himself. "You doctors shouldn't be gossiping about us, you're probably spreading rumors that will come back to bite somebody in the ass," He nibbles at the nail on his thumb, "and it's not doing anything to cure any of us, anyways, I presume."

"Harry, you are not infected with disease, you--,"

"Aren't I, though? Isn't that why I'm here, because I'm _sick_ and need to be cured? Except nothing's happened yet, and my parents are wasting their money, and I just want you all to leave me alone and stop pretending to care."

Doctor Smith sighs, adjusting his glasses before speaking. "You are here because your family loves you, Harry, and I can assure you they are not wasting their money."

Harry scoffs, muttering under his breath that, "yeah of course you’d say that, it's being wired right into your pockets,"

"Now," Smith continues, as though he hasn't heard what Harry just said, "you are not _sick_ , Harry; you're hurting. Everybody hurts, that doesn't make them broken or unlovable. Sometimes, though, when we hurt we have a hard time letting the wound heal, sometimes we need a little help. And there's no shame in that."

"So you think using a softer term, that's going to change everything? You hurt when you're broken, Dr. Smith."

"You hurt when you aren't broken, though, too."

Harry's retort dies in his throat, and his posture falls. "Right." He turns down to his hands in his lap and fiddles with the sleeves of his sweater, the pencil snapped and laying on the desk in front of him.

-

                  He leaves Smith's feeling like a scolded child, just the same as always, and not at all any better. He feels even worse when he sees the bench is now vacated. He finds himself wandering, aimlessly, around the halls until he's in the library. He bids hello to Mrs. Fenella, asking her how she's been and she reciprocates as Harry approaches the first shelf. His first day here he'd tried to find Virginia Woolf's _A Room of One's Own_ , a story he only understood because his mum would read it to him as a child, but the librarian told him they didn't have any of her stories.

He presumed it to be because she'd drowned herself, but nobody ever really confirmed it when he asked.

Wait, hadn’t she also been gay?

He finds himself scanning the shelves until his eyes fall upon a small little book with a black spine, white font spelling out _Heart of Darkness -- Joseph Conrad_. He carefully removes the book, sure he’s not about to send all the others flying out with it, and turns to the back.

' _The horror! The horror!'_

_Marlow, a seaman and wanderer, recounts his physical and psychological journey in search of the infamous ivory trader Kurtz. Travelling up river to the heart of the African continent, he gradually becomes obsessed by this enigmatic, wraith-like figure. Marlow's discovery of how Kurtz has gained his position of power over the local people involves him in a radical questioning, not only of his own nature and values, but those of Western civilization. A haunting and hugely influential Modernist masterpiece, Heart of Darkness (1899) explores the limits of human experience as well as the nightmarish realities of imperialism._

"Hey, Mrs. Fenella?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"How's this book? Is it hard to read?" He holds the novel out past the shelf, so that the librarian will be able to see it.

"Harry, why on earth would you want to read that?" And then, quieter, "I don't even know why we've got that in 'ere,"

                  Harry reexamines the cover: a man, shirtless, who appears to be in pain. Dying, maybe? He's fallen to the floor, the tendons in his neck very evidently bulging out in his struggle. His hands almost resemble paws. "I dunno," he calls back, walking out from behind the shelf and approaching the desk, "but it seems interesting. Is it another one of those books I'll need your help to understand?"

"Dear, this one's harder than most. I'll read it with you, but I don't even know if you'll enjoy it. It's not a very... _nice_ book." She makes a face, but Harry smiles at her and pulls a beanbag behind her desk, sitting down beside her and opening to the first page.

-

                  They're barely finishing the first chapter when Harry hears the door opening and goes quiet mid-sentence. He shrinks lower into the beanbag chair habitually, hiding from whoever broke the spell that always seems to fall over him whenever he and Mrs. Fenella read.

"Oh, hello there. You don't look familiar, is this your first time in the library?"

"Uhm, yeah, they aren't letting me go up to my room, or like, use the bathroom alone, so..." the voice is soft, as if whoever's speaking can barely raise his voice above a whisper, but it's also high like Harry imagines a fairy's would be; like a bell.

"I didn't even know this place had a library," This time he's actually whispering, and Harry wracks his brain trying to place the voice to a name, but it's just entirely unfamiliar.

"Well, sure it does," Mrs. Fenella says, "there's also a music room, and games room, and screening room. There's a footie field outside, but the weather's so foul today I'd imagine they're not allowing anyone out. Are you new?"

                  The boy clears his throat and before he even responds, Harry's sinking lower into the beanbag. "Uhm, yeah, I am. I don't really think I'll be staying though."

"No? Why is that?"

"I don't--I just, I don't think this is the place for me."

"Oh, well," Mrs. Fenella turns to Harry knowingly before turning back up to the boy, "until then, you're free to spend as much time in here are you please. You never know what you might find." There's mirth in her voice, and Harry kicks at her foot. Her grin widens as she struggles not to laugh at him.

                  He hears the boy's shoes move away, but not by much: the library's not big; it's homey and the only room Harry’s liked in this whole hospital since the minute he’d arrived. Mrs. Fenella turns to Harry and raises an eyebrow as encouragement for him to continue reading, but he shakes his head and she leaves him be. He'll continue when this boy is gone. He hears the occasional scuffle of shoes against the carpeted floor, but other than that he nearly forgets the other boy is there. He sure is taking _forever_ though to just pick a book. Harry tugs on Mrs. Fenella's skirt and she seems to get the hint.

"Dear, I don't believe I caught your name?"

"Louis? It's Louis."

"Well, Louis, would you like me to recommend anything to you?"

"Uhm, yeah, sure." He seems less tense now, after Mrs. Fenella called out to him, almost relieved that she's going to help him out. Harry expects her to recommend the same thing to him as she did to Harry when he first got here: John Donne's _Selected Poems_. He thinks Donne is his favorite poet, not that he's read many others, but reading his poems aloud and dissecting them with the help of this kind old woman was almost as wonderful as being lulled to sleep by Virginia Woolf, rolling off Anne's tongue like a lullaby.

                  She doesn't, though.

"Why don't you go ahead and read _Romeo and Juliet_? It's on that shelf over there to your right,"

There's a stilted laugh, before, "Don't they off themselves at the end?" Harry cringes as the boy continues, "Are you sure you should be suggesting that to anyone staying here?"

"I wouldn't suggest anyone at all read it, but...I feel as though you'll enjoy it." She shrugs. "Maybe you won't, but it's worth a shot, innit?"

                  Harry can hear Louis' footsteps retreat in the direction Mrs. Fenella specified, before coming closer than they had before. The book is placed on the desk over Harry's head. "Do I need to, like, get it stamped to check it out or anything?"

"No dear, you're free to take it just like that."

"Alright, well. Thanks, Mrs...?"

"Fenella, Mrs. Fenella."

                  There's a moment before Harry hears the footsteps recede and the door to the library carefully close, and the minute it happens, Mrs. Fenella pounces.

"Oy, you little brat, why didn't you _tell_ me there was a new boy? Oh Harry he looks so kind, too! Why haven't you introduced yourself?" Harry shrugs, flipping through the pages of the book, pretending he's forgotten where they left off, but Mrs. Fenella was always so dangerously good at seeing right through him.

"Oh, fine, be a stick in the mud. Let's carry on with this dumb Conrad lad, then."

"'I am as harmless as a little child, but I don't like to be dictated to. I am the manager--or am I not?'"

-

                  The rest of Harry's day is spent in the library, and they finish almost an entire half of the book. At curfew, Carlie brings Harry dinner ("'M sorry, Carlie, we really lost track of time,") and sits with him on his bed as he finishes it off. She shows him pictures of Andrew, who'd just turned three when she last visited home, and pictures her husband's sent her of the two of them. Harry wants to apologize to her, apologize that she has to be here caring for a lost cause like him instead of her own kid, but the 'sorry' dies in his throat. He lies in bed for hours, thinking, and when he falls asleep, he doesn't dream.

But he doesn't have nightmares, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.n.: all-rightey. so. uni hasn't provided me with too awful a workload yet, but i know it's coming and even though i've written ahead in this fic i'm falling behind: i'm stuck and don't know how to continue on with the plot. i mean, i know what comes next, but the transition there is, ah.   
> any ways, it's a bit of a struggle but i'll work past it. 
> 
> also, i went back and edited this chapter, which is something i did not have the patience to do with the first. hopefully this one flows better and you can tell the difference(?)
> 
> one other thing. i've never been an in-patient, so i don't know exactly how these sort of things go and how staff behaves, but listen: Priory is meant to be a bad example. the staff is terrible--with the few exceptions--at understanding and sympathizing with the patients and the doctors--as you'll probably see in the later chapters--are especially ignorant. which can be disastrous.   
> i'm always up for some constructive criticism! or simply your input on the events in this chapter, the little intro to hazza's side of things.
> 
> enjoy :)


	3. 3-Louis

                  Lunch proved to be an absolute nightmare to finish. William tried talking to him throughout, an attempt to distract him as he willed him to eat, but by the time he'd finished the first half of the toastie and the apple he was ready to run and hide.

"I’m full; is there any way I can save the rest for later?” He tried for nonchalance, even though he felt entirely so out of control. He was about to lose his shit, and the look William sent him was not piteous but empathetic; potentially worse, because it made it harder for Louis to hate him.

"'m sorry, Lou, I can't let you leave it. You can take a break if you want, take your time, but you have to finish all your food."

Louis, who was already standing, kicked the foot of the closest chair and yanked at his hair, hands clawing at his scalp.

"You don't understand! I must've already eaten nearly three hundred calories in one sitting, that's more than I eat in a regular day! I _actually_ can't eat any more!" He could hear the desperation in his own voice, could feel the embarrassment at the knowledge that he was groveling for anything from anyone, at the admission of eating so much in one day, but it felt second-hand.  Like this was something happening to somebody else, he wasn't the one actually experiencing it. His stomach was full and his main concern was to escape and purge everything he'd just stomached and avoid eating the rest of it. He would _not_ have another four hundred calories sticking itself onto his thighs.

"Alright, Louis, I'll make you a deal. Finish off either the banana or the sandwich and let me get you an orange juice, and then we'll be done here." Louis wanted to feel victorious about getting another option, but his heart sunk at the idea of drinking orange juice. He did the math in his head, and while two hundred calories was still an insane amount for him to stomach, he'd already made peace with the necessity of a purging session, and it was better than 250+ with an additional _insanely_ high content of fat. Even though that orange juice would be a _bitch_ to bring back up.

He wasn't pleased, and he huffed obnoxiously to make it known.

"Fine. The banana and juice, I suppose."

Will nodded and stood to retrieve the offending drink, Louis slowly sitting back down and painstakingly peeling away each lip of the banana, its yellow smile mocking.

-

                  When they were done with that, instead of showing Louis his room (with his own private bathroom attached, toilet calling to him), they led him down weird hallways and he was told to wait until Mrs. Anderson was done with the patient she currently had before he could go in. "Can't I just go wait up in my room? What's the difference?" "The difference, Louis, is that it'll only take a few minutes tops, and by the time you get to your room it'll be time you came back."

William had been lying, of course, but Louis wasn't given the opportunity to argue. He sat on that bloody bench for what felt like hours, dwelling on how with each second passing, he would have had _ample_ time to rid himself of the burden in his stomach, but _nooo_. He jiggled his legs restlessly, to lose as many calories as possible, before deciding to just pace back and forth until he was called in. He tries not to focus on the fact that he probably just consumed more than four hundred calories, not even taking into consideration the fat content and carbs of each item, in one sitting. If he does, he'll just start clawing at his thighs, and arms, and stomach again. Which is hard to do with clothes on, so. Better to just pace and burn off whatever he can for the time being.

                  That is, until he hears people coming. And it isn't William; it's some woman, her heels clacking loudly on the wooden floor, and a less prominent thudding accompanying it. He sits back on the bench, curling in on himself by resting his elbows on this knees and holding his head in his hands. He closes his eyes as he hears them turn into the corridor. The woman escorts who Louis assumes to be another patient to an office, one for a different asshole doctor than the one Louis' waiting on, and then he hears her clacking pass him again before receding. He opens his eyes as soon as he hears the door close, and not less than a minute later he's pacing again. He would just start doing his regular workout routine (consisting primarily of alternating sets of jumping jacks and sit-ups), but he knows the door he's waiting on could open any minute and then he'd have to explain himself. At least he can pass this off as a nervous habit, and then purge and exercise off whatever was already digested upon retiring to his room, _finally_. He's maybe paced the entire hall back and forth twelve times before the door finally opens, a timid blonde girl smiling at him, but not meeting his eyes as she leaves the office. He doesn't return the gesture and slips past her, into the room, waiting until she's completely stepped outside before closing the door behind himself.

-

"Hello, Louis, it's good to meet you. My name's Dr. Anderson, but you can just call me Julia. I've heard such wonderful things from your mother." The woman isn't particularly tall, and she's wearing a pair of pale blue converse, but Louis thinks they're too good a shoe for her. Scoffing, he ignores her outstretched hand and takes a seat at the desk.

                  She sighs from behind him and rounds the desk to her seat, opposite the boy. "Right, well, I suppose we should just jump right into it? How was lunch? Your mother told me you don't have any allergies, but I'm obliged to double check in case we need to inform the staff. Anything your mum maybe missed?"

"Lactose intolerant," Louis says, clearly and with purpose. Julia laughs lightly, without malice, but it pisses Louis off all the same.

"I think I recall the lunch for recovering ED patients being _cheese_ sandwiches today, were they not?"

"Yeah, well, for your information, I didn't even finish it _because_ of that. I had to drink orange juice instead." It's a lie, that's not why he didn't finish the _bloody_ toastie, but this bitch doesn't need to know that.

"Hm. Well, I'll try and see about making your meals more lactose-free, but I don't see you having any reactions to that half of the toastie you _did_ eat. And I think they even cook those with butter, so there should definitely be some sort of reaction." Louis' stomach does this sickening flip and then drops ten feet below; he'd been praying they'd greased the pan with olive oil.

Is he imagining her smirk? Because _fuck this_ , he doesn’t need any help, but whoever does should not have to face this devil in high tops.

"Anyways, back to the matter at hand, yes? This isn't our first actual appointment, I'm just going to generally explain how this facility runs and a bit of the rules. First thing, and what with recent events, I feel I need to make myself very clear about this: all glass you see, all mirrors and windows and television screens: they've all been reinforced. Please, do not try to break them for whatever reason you may think up. They will not break, the alarms will go off, and you will be reprimanded accordingly. Have I made myself clear?"

"What, did somebody try and jump out the window or something?"

"That is not what we are discussing right now, and the affairs of other patients is not for me to discuss with you. I just need you to know that I'm here for you whenever you feel the need to talk to someone. Now, another rule: you are going to be expected to eat your _entire_ meals, at every sitting. In the beginning, staff has the permission to be a bit more lenient with you, but eventually there will be no exceptions. Today, not finishing an entire half of the main part of your course, that will probably not be allowed again. Is that understood?"

"I'm lactose intolerant," the boy mumbles, not meeting the doctor's eyes, and nothing in her facial expression changes.

"I will be following up on this claim, by the way. I am going to ask William what the reason you gave him was, and then I will _consider_ telling the cooks to prepare your meals separately." Louis rolls his eyes, but he doubts Will will actually cover for him. _Bollocks_.

                  "Now, to continue on, you have access to your phone at any and all times, but we requested your mother restrict your access to 3G or other cellular data during your time here. Connected to our internet browser, certain sites, certain google searches, certain accounts on mediums such as instagram and tumblr: restricted. There are many things, concerning matters relating to self harm, substance abuse, 'pro-ana' content, that you will not be able to access. Also, every bathroom, may it be your private facility in your room, or a public one at any place in the house, they are all equipped with surveillance microphones and cameras. The cameras are never on unless the microphones detect something that sounds akin to crying, moaning, screaming, or vomiting. I think it goes without saying that you are never, under _any_ circumstances, allowed to spend the night with another patient in their room, or have them spend it in your room, despite the open-door policy we maintain by not equipping doors with exterior locks. The main entries and exits to the facility, however, are always locked at night. If you wake up and feel the need for a breath of fresh air, you are always free to tell a staff member who will accompany you outside and be there for you to talk to about things, should you feel it necessary. You are _not ever_ allowed to steal silverware from the mess hall: you are never given knives, anyways, but the rule still stands. You are not to miss any meals, but should you accidentally do so, the food will be brought up to your room and a staff member will accompany you as you eat. Have I made myself clear thus far?"

"Fucking hell, there's _more_? Do you have to tell me all the rules for _everybody_ in this bloody place, can't you just tell me what concerns me and why I was checked in here?"

"No, I am required to inform you of any and all rules, should you consider attempting to break any of them in the future."

"Why would I?"

Julia shrugs. "Maybe another patient threatens you, or bribes you, or simply asks you to do it for them. Maybe you feel like doing it for yourself." Louis doesn't have a reply for that, so Anderson continues.

                  "Any attempt to bring alcohol, drugs, or anything that can be smoked on site will be dealt with accordingly. These items are completely prohibited. Additional snacks or drinks you may desire can be brought by visitors or a member of staff whenever they make a run to the store, and will be thoroughly checked before given to you. Do not attempt to bribe staff, please; it will prove humiliating for you and you alone. There is an art room, equipped with...sharper tools, but inventory is taken every night to make sure nothing has been stolen. Should something go missing, there will be room checks and, if necessary, body checks. Any and all medicine taken must be approved by a doctor on site, not any staff member. You will be required to attend one group therapy session every week, there is one every day at 17:00. You will also meet with me every week, probably on Mondays at 11:00, for half an hour. Then you will have half an hour before lunch is served. Oh, also, there is no set bedtime and time to be up by, but breakfast is served from 6:00 to 9:00. Dinner is always at 19:00. If you ever see a patient doing something you know very well they should not be doing, you are to alert a staff member immediately. There are masses at 9:00 on Sunday mornings, but attendance is entirely optional. Alright, I think I've covered everything. Do you have any questions?"

Louis shakes his head. He doesn't know how the hell he's going to survive the monitoring of the bathrooms, though, for fucks' sake.

"Very well. Should you have any questions or concerns, at any time, I am always here. If I am not available, there are two other specialized doctors, and the primary doctor on sight that oversees everything, making occasional check-ups on every patient, is Dr. Grace. She's less available, but she's still here for you should you need her. You should meet her sometime today or tomorrow; she'll want to meet you and acquaint herself. Unless you misbehave and are required to come see me or feel the need to discuss anything, I should not see you any time sooner than this coming Monday. I hope you get settled in well by then, Louis."

                  Louis' out the door before she finishes that last sentence.

-

                  He doesn't understand why, but he doesn't immediately seek out his room. Instead, he finds himself aimlessly wandering the halls, losing himself in the many, many corridors. He stumbles upon a door, eventually, with a plaque reading _'Library'_ nailed into the frame. He’d never been too much of a reader, but he wonders how nice a library a posh little place like this might have. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he steps inside.

To be fair, he doesn't know what exactly he expected. He's just not used to libraries being so...small. Or crowded. There are a few rolling metal shelves, and a lone computer in the far left corner of the room that looks as old as he is. There's a beanbag chair, off by one of the shelves, and there doesn't seem to be much order to the room whatsoever. Most of the books, the ones that aren't shoved into any possible crevice on the shelves, are wobbly stacks c of literary skyscrapers. There's a desk in the middle of the room, a woman with stray grey hairs mixed into dark brown, her eyes following him.

"Oh, hello there. You don't look familiar, is this your first time in the library?"

                  Her eyes are kind, Louis decides. She kind of reminds him of their neighbor back home, the one that always came over—before mum found a steady job—with food and sat at their crowded table with them and led grace. She'd passed away two summers ago. Johannah had cried at the funeral, and not a week later another family was moving in next door. They'd politely declined Johannah's invitation to dinner. "Uhm, yeah, they aren't letting me go up to my room, or like, use the bathroom alone, so..." He trails off, wondering if maybe he's speaking too loudly for the small space. He hears the words bounce around him and turns back to the books, quietly continuing to himself. "I didn't even know this place had a library."

"Well, sure it does, there's also a music room, and games room, and screening room. There's a footie field outside, but the weather's so foul today I'd imagine they're not allowing anyone out. Are you new?"

                  _There's a footie field._ Louis' mind latches to that: he hasn't played in ages. He couldn't; hadn't had the energy, and the reason why reminds him why it was worth it. He clears his throat to try and ease the suffocating need to find a bathroom. "Uhm, yeah, I am. I don't really think I'll be staying though."

"No? Why is that?"

"I don't--I just, I don't think this is the place for me." He doesn't meet her eyes, enlarged by her glasses and much too alike a dead woman’s.

"Oh, well," the librarian sounds genuinely disappointed at the prospect of Louis leaving and he feels like shrinking into himself, "until then, you're free to spend as much time in here are you please. You never know what you might find."

                  Louis nods, and approaches the closest tower of books. He scans the spines carefully, ducking as he moves lower. They're all classics: _1984_ , _Lord of the Flies_ , _The Scarlet Letter_. Since the last book he read was _Wintergirls_ —the worst book he's ever, _ever_ read, mind you—he thinks he probably chose the wrong stack to search though. Then again, turning to the next closest one and catching sight of _Breaking Dawn_ , he thinks maybe not. He anxiously turns back to the woman to try and see if she's bothered by him taking so long, but she's looking down at her desk, so maybe she didn't even notice. Or maybe she just thinks he's too gross to look at for too long. He takes back what he said before: the room is suddenly much larger based solely on the fucking monstrous book collection. He shuffles over to a shelf and tries to pick something out quickly, but he wants something that he thinks he'll actually like reading. There's a book called _Savvy_ that he considers taking but it's in such an awkward position all the other books would come tumbling out should he reach for it wrong. Maybe he should just take _Stargirl_ and leave.

"Dear, I don't believe I caught your name?" She speaks smoothly, but it breaks the silence all the same and surprises him enough to jump. He turns to face her before responding.

"Louis? It's Louis."

"Well, Louis, would you like me to recommend anything to you?"

"Uhm, yeah, sure." Was she getting tired of having him here? Did she want him gone and that was the only reason she was even helping him out? Part of Louis thought that, the other half was grateful she took pity on him. He turned to face her and saw her studying him carefully, and he subconsciously slouched into himself.

"Why don't you go ahead and read _Romeo and Juliet_? It's on that shelf over there to your right,"

She gestured somewhere off to the other side of the room and Louis couldn't keep himself from rolling his eyes, from laughing. Why did he think her help would be useful again? This whole situation was so fucked. "Don't they off themselves at the end? Are you sure you should be suggesting that to anyone staying here?"

"I wouldn't suggest anyone at all read it, but...I feel as though you'll enjoy it." She shrugs. "Maybe you won't, but it's worth a shot, innit?"

                  _A shot in the dark, maybe._ Louis scoffs and makes his way to the section she'd singled out, finding the play wedged between _Hamlet_ and _Waiting for Godot_. Gingerly, he removes the book, holding back the others on the shelf to keep everything from tumbling out. He's successful: saving _A Streetcar Named Desire_ at the last second and haphazardly shoving it back into the shelf. He walks up to the desk and sets the book in front of the librarian in order for it to be checked out. "Do I need to, like, get it stamped to check it out or anything?"

"No dear, you're free to take it just like that." She smiles, kindly, and Louis' eyes are forced to avert from her face. She's probably faking it; she's probably grossed out by him.

"Alright, well. Thanks, Mrs...?"

"Fenella, Mrs. Fenella."

                  He nods, without turning to face her again, and takes the book in both hands, holding it firmly. He's watching his feet pass over the ground as he approaches the door, quietly slipping out of the room. He wanders around with his book, deciding to finally retire to his room, but as soon as he gets there and takes one look at his luggage he's suddenly reminded of why he's been forced to stay here. How much he'd eaten a little over two hours ago, and a roll of nausea hits him. He tears open one of his suitcases and pulls out an old sweatshirt and pair of football shorts and quickly changes in the only corner of the room where he cannot see the full-length mirror at all. He tries not to look down at himself as he does. He starts up the music on his phone and sets it on the bedside table, starting up his workout.

And if his vision blurs at the edges in his shame, nobody has to know.

-

                  His workout lasts nearly two hours, the time spent doing intense cardio, and he would've gone even longer if he didn't feel himself on the brink of passing out. There are water bottles in his room, and he finishes two of them in one go. He has to grip onto the side of the desk for support. He jumps in the shower and is thankful he has his own, private bathroom. He probably spends much more time than usual glowering down at his belly, at his arms and legs; he scrubs away at his skin and washes off the layers of grime coating him. He tries to claw off some of the layers under his skin, too, but as usual all it does is brighten his skin to a shade away from a stoplight. He runs shampoo through his hair carelessly, shivering and anxious to finish and find solace under layers of clothes. He changes into his beat-up _Killers_ sweater and a pair of navy sweatpants, decides to forego his converse after putting on his socks. It's not like he's going anywhere outside, anyways. He slides up to the headboard, eyes the copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ he'd thrown on the comforter earlier. He ignores it and reaches over for his phone. There are messages from Zayn, and missed calls from his mum, and it makes his eyes sting. He carefully turns his phone off and sets it aside again, moving delicately on auto-pilot, before he grabs the next closest thing (a pillow) and tosses it across the room violently, snapping back into control of his body. It hits a lamp and sends it falling off the edge of the desk, and there's a moment of panic and adrenaline because he thinks it will shatter as soon as it hits the floor, but it doesn't break. He laughs manically, incredulously, because those _fuckers_ are so pathetic. He feels like throwing a tantrum, maybe throwing another pillow or getting up and trying to punch something: the unbroken vase isn't satisfying enough. He's tired, though; he feels weak, and sad, and fat and useless and unwanted and ugly and hurt and stripped of his soul.

He picks up the play and opens it to the first page.

-

                  In all fairness, the book is much harder to understand than he'd anticipated. He'd expected it to be simple, like the script for _Grease_. Instead, he finds himself having to reread sentences twice or three times before he thinks he might understand what was being said, and even then sometimes he has to jump back a couple pages once something is made clearer later on. It’s tedious and cumbersome and a great form of distraction.

He's trying to understand the complexity of Mercutio's description of Queen Mab, and why just imagining this fairy makes him terrified to the point of wanting to put the book away, when there's a knock on the door. He folds the top corner of the page to mark his spot and slips out of the bed. William's standing on the other side of the door, a smile waiting for Louis when he opens it.

"Hey, Lou, did you lose track of time?"

"I--why? What time is it?"

"A little after 19:00...I didn't think you'd want to have to eat supper in your room, since usually when you miss a meal they give you larger portions, but--,"

"I did lose track of time, but I'm not hungry anyways, so I think I'll just hit the hay a bit earlier tonight."

"Louis, if you fall asleep to avoid a meal then someone'll probably just wake you up to make sure you eat."

"Well fuck that--can't you just leave me alone for one night? I don't even want to fucking be here, I don't even _need_ to fucking be here, I just--,"

"Did you try and break your lamp?" William's looking over Louis' shoulder into his room, and Louis raises his eyebrows in confusion before turning to follow the other man's line of sight.

"I wha--oh. No, I didn't, I just--I dunno, I checked my phone and got a bit angry at something and threw a pillow. It hit the lamp but that wasn't my _intention_ , it wasn't like I wanted to break it or anything."

Will's scrutinizing him, distrust in his eyes, and Louis is so fucking done. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, anyways? "For Gods' sake, you're a prat. I didn't try and break the bloody lamp, I didn't do that because I wouldn’t be so desperate to have something to off myself with that I'd resort to something so fucking low. I don't even need to be here, I fucking _told_ you." He shoves the other man aside and storms out into the hall, making his way to the mess hall. Will follows after him, and once he's caught up matches his stride.

"Y'know, you probably shouldn't talk that way about people. Everyone's got their problems, their monsters that they have to deal with. Just because yours aren't the same as other people's doesn't make theirs less valid or _'lower'_."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Feel free to lecture me, it's easier to do when it's about something you know nothing about, right?"

"I tried to kill myself when I was 16," He says, nonchalantly, as if he were telling Louis the time. Louis stops walking and turns to look at the other man: his black hair, tied up in a bun, his beautifully sharp jawline. His healthy complexion. His eyebrows are a little untamed and he’s probably due for a shave, and that awful posture, but he looked normal. He didn't look sickly, or sad, or anything like the other kids Louis had seen here. He wasn't ugly or particularly chubby like Louis was.

"What a load," It has to be a load: he was just trying to get Louis to listen to his ramblings by making himself more relatable. There's no way this emotionally stable, secure, obviously in-control lad keeps any skeletons in his closet. Will turns to face him, having walked a little bit ahead since Louis stopped.

"I filled the tub and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, washing it down with vodka. I sat in, fully clothed, and fell asleep. Woke up to my dad holding me over the toilet, his fingers down my throat. I puked everything up and was rushed to a hospital and later they took me to a facility in London." He shrugs and turns to continue down the hall, but Louis can't bring himself to follow. He looks down to his socks.

"Louis?"

"'m sorry, for what I said earlier."

"Hey, it's okay. Come on, let's go and eat, yeah?"

-

The dining room is much, much more intimidating when full of people. Will says he'll bring him his food and Louis nods before going to find a seat. There isn't a single table vacant, and he's about to just abscond back to his room and have Will bring his meal up when a voice behind him says, "You can sit with us, if you want."

                  She has dark skin and gorgeous curls, messily pulled out of her face with a floral bandana. She's smiling up at him, kindly, and Louis smiles thankfully and takes the empty seat next to her. On her other side is the blonde girl he'd seen earlier leaving Anderson's in a _My Chemical Romance_ tee and across from them are two other girls: one with green eyes and freckles and another with bangs that almost cover her eyes. They all smile at him and then go back to eating, not staring him down and forcing him to suffocate under their watch. He likes them all already. Will sets a tray in front of him, and it's got mash and greek salad, with feta cheese and chicken. There's a water bottle and a little condiment cup with dressing on the side, which Louis knows he won't be using. There's a sauce boat filled with gravy that Louis only now notices, in the center of the table, and he knows how he's going to get out of eating the mash, at least. He moves the cheese aside before mixing in the chicken and he takes a bite of lettuce and tomato, calculating in his head as he goes. He plays with his mash, spreading it around on the plate and making it look as eaten at as possible. A fork from across quickly swipes at his plate, stealing a good portion of the potatoes when Louis doesn't even expect it. The youngest girl—the one with green eyes—is shoving the forkful in her mouth and the mash disappears from sight. Louis looks around the room, but nobody's noticed.

"The portions here they start you all on are ridiculous and unrealistic," The one with bangs says in a low voice, looking up to meet Louis' eyes, "it's easier if you get a bit of help in the beginning."

                  "Th—thanks," Louis doesn't really know what else to say; he's grateful, and he doesn't want to tell them that he's never going to be able to adjust to this meal plan they have set up for him, so he just takes his second bite of salad and moves the mash around a bit more. Another forkful is swiftly stolen from the plate, and Louis smiles gratefully before determining that whatever's left is easy enough to be hidden before reaching for the gravy and dumping as much as possible onto the leftover mash. It dissolves the remaining potato, and he hears a few of the girls chuckle. He doesn't understand why it's funny, and it makes him a bit self conscious: maybe they think he's going to eat it now? Maybe they're sure that that's why he wouldn't eat them before: they weren't greasy and fattening enough for someone like _him_ before, and he closes his eyes to try and calm his mind down. When he next opens them, he's sure a decent amount of time has passed, because the girl in the band tee and the other with bangs are gone and it's just three of them left. He takes a piece of the chicken, already cut into a pretty small portion, and eats it. He makes sure to chew it no less than a hundred times before swallowing, moving to take another bite. The progress is pathetic: he's only taken another two bites before there's two of them left, just him and bandana, and then she's standing to leave too. She stares at him oddly before she leaves, before quickly picking out a piece of chicken and shoving it in her mouth. It looks like it pains her to eat it, and Louis' kind of shocked when she swallows. She nods—to herself, Louis thinks—and runs a hand nervously through her hair before bolting. Louis looks down at his salad, which is nowhere near finished. The cheese sits aside untouched, just like the gravy-bathed mash and salad dressing, and Louis thinks he can do this: lettuce and tomato and olives. No more than 100 calories. Significantly less if he avoids the olives.  
He moves them to one edge of the plate and cuts them up as small as he can, nonchalantly dumping them into the gravy when nobody's looking. The problem is, he can't keep doing that because less people eating means more attention on everyone who's left, Louis being one of the last ones in the hall. He sucks it up and eats the other five olives, polishing off the salad and dealing with an inspection of how much he's eaten from Will before he's permitted to retire to his room. He thinks maybe Will covered for him about the lactose thing, because the nurse doesn't push him to finish off the dairy. He's thankful for the little things.

                  Louis' honestly not too upset about his intake at dinner: sure, it's such a late time to take in more calories, but it could've been much worse. He could've actually been forced to eat the feta, or the mash, or the rest of the chicken. His stomach churns thinking back to lunch though, and it's motivation enough to have him shedding his clothes and doing sets of lunges, jumping jacks, burpees. He doesn't think of the time passing: he thinks in numbers. Burpees burn 10 calories for every five he does, seven thousand jumping jacks burn half a kilo (but he divides them into sets of a thousand), nearly 10 calories for every fifteen lunges. He used to throw a couple crunches in between sets but they're so inefficient in burning calories he's decided they aren't worth the effort. He feels his vision dancing when he reaches his last set of jumping jacks, and he stumbles to grip onto the bed, his arms shaking. It's pathetic; how weak he is, how bent out of shape. He slips out of his boxers and into the shower, rewarding himself with lukewarm water instead of arctic rain. He brushes his teeth and pats his hair dry before slipping into bed, stomach curling as he fitfully tries to fall asleep.

-

                  Louis wakes slowly, easily. He checks the digital clock on the bedside table; half past 7. That's weird: usually he's up earlier, stomach pains up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by five o’clock. Must be the fucking toastie from yesterday. He rubs as his eyes and throws the covers off of himself, cringing when pristine white gives way to flabby beige. He hates falling to sleep naked; he always regrets it in the light of day. He shuffles over to his suitcase once the initial dizziness from standing passes. He offhandedly thinks of unpacking but what would be the point? _I’m not staying here_ , he decides, grabbing the first sweater he finds and a pair of pajama pants. The sweater is one of his favorites: grey with bleached stripes, baggy enough to hide his figure, and the pants are deep red, the color of merlot. Random socks are slipped on and he makes his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth before doing a set of jumping jacks and push-ups and then finally making his way to breakfast.

                  The dining room is less packed than it had been the night before—Louis suspects many of the other patients are still asleep. The breakfast setup is very different from that of lunch and dinner: it's more like a breakfast buffet in a hotel, what with the one longest table at the far end piled with plates of eggs and meats of different varieties, toast, pancakes, baked beans. There's also an array of fruits and cereals, with chilled yoghurt and different pastries. He wonders how much of the food the Hospital has to be throw away every morning as he floats towards the station with tea and coffee. He picks out a bag of green tea and lets it steep as his eyes pass over the food, calculating in his mind: if he eats a piece of whole-grain toast and a few strawberries, then he should be fine. He'll just use a small plate so the nurses don't notice how little he'd actually be eating. He goes about gathering his food, then, and a woman stops him as he turns to leave and find a place to sit.

"Louis, isn't that a bit...little?"

He tries to remember whether he met this woman yesterday or not, but her face doesn't ring a bell. She's got wicked white hair though, and Louis thinks this is the kind of person Lottie would love to meet: she looks like a fairy, or a princess. He wonders when he'll see Lottie again, if she'll come visit even after what happened. Probably not. She'd avoided him like the plague at home afterwards, and never met his eyes. He could hear her crying to their mum and talking about finding him, and he felt like the biggest arse in the world for forgetting to lock the fucking door. Maybe he shouldn't even bother with the toast.

"You alright there, love?" She sounds worried, and Louis has to consciously pull his face out of the frown it's formed; he misses home.

"Who're you?"

"I'm Louise, but you can call me Lou. Bet you're used to telling people that, not hearing it, ay? Any road," she puts an apple and hard-boiled egg on his plate before smiling brightly, "there. Now you're free to go. And don't even try avoid eating the yolk of that thing, I'm watching out for it!" Louis glares down at his plate and before he can snap back she's gone, and he mutters under his breath. He finds the girl with bangs and the blonde one from the day before and they gesture him over. He's grateful; he's also grateful they seem to have an inclination to the tables in the corners of the room just like he does.  
The two girls aren't touching their food: they've both got out their mobiles and appear to be texting, so Louis just kind of nudges his food around a bit on his plate with the fork. He takes a small bite of one of the strawberries, nurses his tea as it cools, the translucence from the splash of skim milk a comfort. The rest of the group from yesterday slowly joins, and then bandana (who today has her hair loose and framing her face beautifully) breaks the silence.

"C'mon then, Haz, aren't you gonna sit?"

                  She's speaking with someone over Louis' head, and Louis turns to see who this Haz person is. His breathing kind of...stops. And for the first time he can remember, it's not from the heart palpitations. The boy has long, curly hair that reaches his shoulders and eyes like the blur of scenery on his way here, but so, so much brighter. They're emeralds. His bone structure makes Louis' insides curl with jealousy, his collarbones peeking out from underneath a _Bowie Tour_ sweatshirt. He's wearing only boxer shorts, and he's got legs for miles. Louis feels disgusting. He turns to his plate and mentally curses the half-eaten berry.

The boy seems incredibly uncomfortable after being subjected to Louis' gaze—of course he does, Louis' so gross it's probably making _him_ feel disgusting. Haz takes the seat across from him, jittery and looking entirely out of his element.

They continue on for a bit in the same silence Louis had grown used to, until the girl with bangs snatches Louis' egg.

"Erin, you can't keep taking the high-protein foods. Those are the ones he needs, take some of the berries," the blonde scolds her, and the other girl—Erin, Louis now knows—rolls her eyes.

"Jaz, I took the same sorts of foods from you as I am from him, and you're recovering fine. He's still got the toast." She pops the yolk into her mouth, first, and Louis thinks he owes God one. And Erin, too.

"Jasmine's right, Erin" It's bandana, who Louis' heard talk the most until now, "you probably should've left him with the egg and taken the toast instead.” She turns to Louis and smiles kindly. "I'm Chloe, by the way. This is Jasmine, Erin, Daisy, and Harry. Jaz and I are here because, well, same as you, I s'pose. Erin's got Bipolar disorder and Daisy's a little sad. Harry, too."

"Depressed and suicidal, Chlo, they aren't dirty words. You can say 'em like they are." Harry says, quietly, not looking up from the table. His voice is gentle; it's melodious. Louis isn't given the opportunity to appreciate it though, because—Daisy.

"My sister's name is Daisy," Louis whispers in barely guised horror, images of the five-year-old finding him instead of Lottie flashing through his mind. He feels a very familiar itch in the back of his throat. This child—who cannot, by the looks of it, be any older than fourteen—should not have to be here, dealing with the demons she is. Harry, with his beautiful physique, his timeless eyes, he should not have to be here. _Suicidal_? Louis feels himself getting sick.

"How old is she?" Daisy asks, and Louis swallows back bile.

"Five, she's—she's five years old."

"She have your eyes?"

"Yeah, she does."

"She must be beautiful."

Louis bites the inside of his cheek and lets his eyes fall to his hands, which are fidgeting with the tablecloth. His eyes burn, and his throat itches, and his stomach weighs him down. Conversation dies down again, after that, and by the time Chloe's leaving, it's only Harry and Louis left, and Louis hasn't eaten anything but a strawberry, half the apple, and two bites of toast.

"You two try and talk to each other, you understand? These silent meals are going to be the death of me."

Louis' confused—is it his fault everyone's eating in silence? He's probably intruding, and his stomach sinks as he decides it: he won't eat with them again. They shouldn't be burdened with him. But she smiles at him, and it feels genuine enough, so maybe not. But maybe she's just trying to be nice. _She ate your food_ , the vehement voice whispers, _she ate your food and she has to deal with the same things you do. she probably hates your guts for making her do that._

"So, uh, you said you had a sister?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.n.: so! louis and harry are kind of dancing around each other because it's a bit unrealistic (in my opinion) for them to just suddenly meet and hit it off from there so while their initial impressions of each other (as you will see) are positive, they both have a lot of personal issues for them to work through before they are able to build a healthy friendship, let alone relationship.  
> again, priory is not the model hospital to help people! i think a lot of things that their staff has already done in the pic are very, very wrong in attempting to help people overcome these sorts of struggles and therefore you can look at the facility itself as the main antagonist in the fic--especially when sexuality comes into play in the later chapters. thanks again and like always, i love feedback be it negative or positive :) and im always available if anybody needs anyone to talk to at all xx  
> s.  
> oh! one more thing. in the few chapters coming up, as in these couple of introductory chapt.s, a lot of the boys' narratives overlap. that won't be consistent throughout the entire fic but i felt like it was important to expose to readers the different ways each character understands and interprets what's going on around them and especially between the two of them.


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